The place was quiet. He could hear the swish of her carriage dress when she move d.

The teasing rustle was coming nearer. He kept his eye on the vista straight ahead until she paused a few feet away. I understand that one of the trilithons fell not so very long ago, she said. Seventeen hundred ninety-seven, he said. A friend at Eton told me about it. He clai med the stone toppled over in fright the day I was born. So I checked. He was wrong. I was a f ull two years old at the time. I daresay you beat the true facts into your schoolfellow. She tilted her head back to look at him. Was it Ainswood, I wonder? Despite a walk in the brisk morning air, she looked tired. Too pale. Shadows rin ged her eyes. His fault. It was someone else, he said shortly. And you re not to think I brawl with every fool who tries to exercise his feeble wit upon me. You don t brawl, she said. You re a most scientific fighter. Intellectual, I should say . You knew what Ainswood would do before he knew it himself. She moved away, toward a fallen stone. I d wondered how you would manage it, with b ut one arm. She dropped her umbrella onto the stone and posed, fists clenched, one held clos er to her body. How, I asked myself, can he shield himself and strike simultaneously? But you didn t do i t that way. She ducked her head to the side, as though dodging a blow, and backed off. It was dodge and retreat, luring him on, letting him waste his strength. It wasn t hard, he said, swallowing his surprise. He wasn t as alert as he might have b een. Not nearly so quick as he is when sober. I m sober, she said. She leapt onto the stone. Come, let s see if I m quick enough. She was wearing an immense leghorn hat, with flowers and satin ribbons sprouting from the top. It was tied under her left ear in an enormous bow. The carriage dress was the usual fas hionable insanity of flounces and lace and overblown sleeves. A pair of satin straps buckled each sle eve above the elbow, so that her upper arms appeared to be made of balloons. The satin cords lacing up t he lower sleeves ended in long tassles that dangled from the middle of her forearms. He could not remember when he d seen anything so ludicrous as this silly bit of fe mininity gravely poised upon a stone in approved boxing stance. He walked up to her, his mouth quivering. Come down, Jess. You look like a comple te addlepate. Her fist shot out. His head went back, reflex-ively, and she missed but only by a hairs-breadth. He laughed and something struck his ear. He eyed her narrowly. She was smiling, an d twin glints of mischief lit her grey eyes. Did I hurt you, Dain? she asked with patently false co ncern. Hurt me? he echoed. Do you actually believe you can hurt me with that? He grabbed the offending hand. She lost her balance and stumbled forward and caught hold of his shoulder. Her mouth was inches from his. He closed the distance and kissed her, fiercely, while he let go of her hand to wrap his arm around her waist.

The morning sun beat down warmly, but she tasted like rain, like a summer storm, and the thunder he heard was his own need, his blood pounding in his ears, his heart drumming the s ame unsteady beat. He deepened the kiss, thirstily plundering the sweet heat of her mouth, and inst antly intoxicated when she answered in kind, her tongue curling over his in a teasing dance that made him d izzy. Her slender arms wound about his neck and tightened. Her firm, round breasts pressed against his chest, sending whorls of heat down, to throb in his loins. He slid his hand down, cupping her small, deli ciously rounded derriere. Mine, he thought. She was light and slender and curved to sweet perfection and sh e was his. His very own wife, ravishing him with her innocently wanton mouth and tongue, clinging to him with intoxicating possessiveness. As though she wanted him, as though she felt what he did, the sa me mindless, hammering need. His mouth still locked with hers, he swept her down from her stony pedestal and would have swept her onto the hard ground as well but a raucous cry from above jolted him back to real ity. He broke away from her mouth and looked up. A carrion crow fearlessly alit on one of the smaller bluestones, and offered a b eaky profile from which one glinting eye appeared to regard Dain with mocking avian amusement. Big Beak, Ainswood had called him last night. One of the old Eton epithets along w ith Ear-wig. Black Buzzard, and a host of other endearments. His face burning, he turned away from his wife. Come along, he said, his voice sha rp with bitterness. We can t dawdle here all day. Jessica heard the bitterness and discerned the flush under his olive skin. For a few moments, she fretted that she d done something to offend or disgust him. But halfway down the incline, he slowed to let her catch up with him. And when she took his hand the crippled one and squeezed it, he g lanced at her, and said, I hate crows. Noisy, filthy things. She supposed that was as close to an explanation or apology as he could come. Sh e glanced back at the ancient temple. I collect it s because you re a high-strung thoroughbred. He was mere ly part of the atmosphere to me. I thought it all very romantic. He gave a short laugh. You mean gothic, I think. No, I don t, she said. There was I in the arms of a dark, dangerous hero, amid the ru ins of Stonehenge, an ancient place of mystery. Byron himself could not have painted a more romantic scene. I m sure you believe there isn t a romantic bone in your body, she added with a sidel ong glance. If you found one, you d break it. But you needn t worry. I shouldn t dream of declaring other wise to anyone else. I m not romantic, he said tightly. And I most certainly am not high-strung. As to tho roughbreds you know very well I m half-Italian. The Italian half is blue-blooded, too, she said. The Due d Abonville told me your mot her s line is very

old Florentine nobility. That, apparently, reconciled him to our marriage. He uttered a series of words she couldn t understand, but guessed were curses in h is mother s tongue. He means to marry Genevieve, she said mol-lifyingly. That s what made him so overprot ective of me. But there are benefits to the attachment. He s taken Bertie in hand, which means y ou won t be bothered with my brother s financial difficulties in future. Dain brooded silently until they d reentered the carriage. Then, releasing a sigh, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Romantic. High-strung. And you think it s reassuring that your gra ndmother s lover means to take your brainless brother in hand. I do believe, Jess, that you are a s demented as every other member and prospective member of your entire lunatic family. Are you going to sleep? she asked.